Fresh Start Fever
by AgentDown
Summary: No matter how they prepped their Winter Soldier, or how often they wiped his mind, there was one memory that they were never be able to take from him: the image of sky-blue eyes beneath golden hair, and a bright smile that only ever belonged to his dreams. [Slash, CTAWS spoilers.]


A/N: Uuuuugh, I don't even know. This just kinda _happened_ while I was trying to write a fluffy domestic Stucky fic. I guess I'm still reeling from all the CATWS feels and I needed an outlet somewhere.

Also, I was sleepy when I wrote it, so.

Title borrowed from "Fresh Start Fever" by You Me At Six. Kinda relevant to the fic, but kinda not...

This has also been posted over on AO3 under the same title.

Disclaimer: AgentDown owns nothing. Though, she would really like to own a Captain America Lego set for her birthday…

* * *

**Fresh Start Fever**

"But I knew him."

It was a confession. It wasn't meant to be inquisitive, or accusing, or rebellion. What it was-it was an admission to something that was wrong-remembrance. Remembering someone who was not part of his mission was wrong. Because he was Hydra's weapon, and weapons that belonged to Hydra weren't allowed memories that weren't Hydra's or emotions that weren't Hydra's or thoughts that weren't first thought by Hydra.

He knew Pierce would never give him what he wanted.

He hadn't expected much other than what followed, but for one self-indulgent moment-which was dangerous because he was not allowed self-indulgence-for one moment, he imagined, _Yes. You knew him before Hydra adopted and perfected you. You knew him before you were ours. What was he to you? He was your life._

He would have liked that, which was also dangerous.

Instead-

_You met him on a previous mission._

The Soldier had admitted something dangerous, because Hydra had trained him well. _Give us your secrets or don't. We will have them anyway._

And all he was getting in return was a wipe. Nothing he could do about that, except resign himself to the familiar procedure, something that he was allowed to remember because it was necessary.

Familiar men on bridges were not.

What the Soldier didn't tell his handlers was that no matter how many times they wiped his mind-

No matter how many times they siphoned what was left of his soul-

No matter how long they sent fire through his skull and burned away all that he might have once been-

No matter how they prepped their Winter Soldier, there was one memory they were never able to take from him. Because for as long as he'd been frozen and awakened and frozen again, mind scoured and pulled apart-the first image that always came to him when he tried to remember anything was that of sky-blue eyes beneath golden hair, and a bright smile that only ever belonged to his dreams.

He'd never known who the face belonged to. What person had ever existed in his life so brightly and so _powerfully_ that their face was a permanent fixture in the Soldier's mind? Even after the strongest and most prolonged of wipes, that man's face had always been waiting for him in the back of his mind. The eyes that watched him with something he was not allowed to feel, and the smile that gave him a thrill that not even the most dangerous missions had ever offered.

He'd never known, and he'd thought he would never know.

And then he'd seen all of that in the man on the bridge. The man who had looked at him with such shock and recognition.

He had known him.

For whatever reason, the man's face-_that man's face_-was something that had been with him as far back as he could remember, and Hydra had never been able to steal it from him. It was the only memory that was _his_, that wasn't combat techniques or Hydra's rules. Because it was his, _his_, his and his alone-

But there was always the fear. Of losing that one memory. Because he was sure there had been other memories he'd thought he would never lose, memories that were already lost and might as well have never existed because Hydra had pulled them right from his soul, and souls were not something that could be repaired.

Which wipe would take this from him?

_Wipe him._

He was pressed back and strapped in, and his chest constricted and the panic closed in before the first spark, and his muscles tightened and his breathing was harsh and quick-

_Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve._

The fire tore through his mind.

* * *

The face was slick with water and spilled blood. One eye was swollen. The blonde hair was limp against pale skin. The lips were parted, barely drawing breath, and the Soldier watched with fear that they might speak again-

_You know me._

_I'm not gonna fight you, Buck._

_Because I'm with you 'til the end of the line._

-and he couldn't handle that now. Not now. Even though the Captain's face was the face that had stayed with him all those years, that had flickered in the dark of cryogenic sleep. The Captain was his memory, his memory, but he couldn't-

He couldn't deal with that right now.

He left the Captain behind, but the memory stayed with him, as it always had.

* * *

The Captain and his friend were searching for the Soldier.

They'd almost caught him the sixth time he visited the Smithsonian, but he'd been able to slip away in the crowd. He'd hid in the shadows and watched the rest of their frantic search until he saw the Captain's face fall, the blue eyes downcast and those impressive shoulders slumped. The Soldier had left when the Captain steeled his resolve and began to search the crowd again.

The Captain's name was Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers was the face that flashed in his mind when he tried to sleep.

And James Buchanan Barnes was the face he saw when he looked into a mirror.

* * *

_He remembered having short hair. Combed back, neat and proper. Women loved his hair. And. Someone else. Someone who would at first ruffle his hair playfully, then later, an ocean away from home, running trembling fingers along his scalp, cupping the back of his head, pulling him forward-_

* * *

Some nights he heard voices in his dreams, and remembered vague images when he woke. Most nights he just remembered snippets of conversations and thought, hoped, that one of the voices was the Captain's.

_"You know, if you had just told me you thought I was irresistible back in Brooklyn, I'd have dropped all those dames in an instant, and picked you right up."_

_"… Really."_

_"Really."_

_"So, you're saying it's my fault we never… did things back home."_

_"That's what I'm sayin."_

_"Really."_

_"Yep."_

_"I don't think all the blame should be placed on me. You used to bring a different girl home every week and you were always trying to get me to-"_

_"Forget I said anything and get over here. Your lover needs attention."_

_"I don't know if I wanna get over there, now."_

_"Just c'mere, punk."_

* * *

He hoarded these dreams and surfacing memories and odd thoughts because there was that deep seated fear that Hydra would take them from him.

Weapons were not allowed thoughts that Hydra did not think first.

They were not allowed to keep dreams.

Even though he had been out of Hydra's hands for-days? Weeks?-for however long it had been, he was still frightened. He knew Hydra well enough to know that they didn't let their possessions go easily.

But he wouldn't go back without a fight.

* * *

_You will be Hydra's weapon. You are no longer Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Weapons aren't allowed names, you see. Why treat a weapon as if it were a human? No, you will never be that name again. You will never hear it again. From now on, your designation will be Winter Soldier. You will not have to love it, and you will not be able to hate it. You are not allowed to feel what we do not tell you to feel._

_You are a near-perfect specimen, Winter Soldier. We will perfect you. Hydra will perfect you._

_(Put him on ice.)_

He saw the door close, and outside the thick window he saw Hydra faces, the faces of scientists and of handlers and Zola-

_No, no, you're dead, no_-

He felt the chill before ice frosted over the glass and then there was only his face staring back at him, bloodless and terrified and broken.

The ice blasted over his flesh and turned his blood to crimson slush, so that it moved sluggishly through his stiffening body, and even his racing thoughts were slowing and freezing and _no no no, not this, I'm free-I'm free, how is this-God... please… no, Steve-_

-now he was in the chair, and they were strapping him in and lowering him down and he couldn't breathe-

He saw squirming tentacles raise from the ground to twist around his brain and _squeeze_, and he saw his last memories fall like dregs into fire where they curled in on themselves and blackened and disintegrated into ashes and Steve's face was in there, blue eyes going red and golden hair aflame and smooth skin cracking-

And before he could hear Steve's scream, Bucky Barnes woke up.

He sucked in a breath and stared at the dark ceiling of his hideout. He thought he could still see the image of the flames engulfing his memories, but they faded as dreams do, and he let them go.

Because he could do that, now. He could let memories like nightmares or ridiculous dreams naturally fade, because he knew Hydra wasn't there to rip them from him.

He could also keep the memories he wanted, and visit them when he wanted, because he knew they were safe in his mind where they belonged.

Breathing hard, Bucky thumped his head back against the wall he was sitting up against and forced himself to calm down.

He wasn't in Hydra's hands.

He wasn't being frozen.

He wasn't being wiped.

He licked his dry lips and shifted so that he was a bit more comfortable. He didn't lie down because sitting against the wall was more comfortable than lying on the dusty, cracked floor. He'd been allowed no comforts as the Winter Soldier. But Bucky Barnes could allow himself this.

Besides, to sleep he needed to be comfy, because tomorrow was a big day, and he needed as much sleep as he could get. Tomorrow he was going to sit in the park that Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson walked by every afternoon on their way to the coffee shop down the street. Wilson would have his mocha latte and Steve would have his plain cappuccino, which he thought-because he allowed himself to feel things now-he thought it was ridiculously cute that Steve drank cappuccinos.

And he liked it when Steve licked the foamy mustache off his lips with a slow swipe of his tongue.

He indulged in a fantasy-because he could do that now-of leaning over to lick the white foam off himself, and cupping Steve's face for a kiss that was slow and languid and indulgent, because Bucky Barnes had loved to kiss Steve Rogers in the damp mornings of Europe, and he wanted that back. He wanted everything back. He wanted the laughter, and the arguments, and the easy camaraderie, and the lame jokes, and the _amazing sex-_

Bucky could want things now. And he wanted all the things. All of them. Everything he'd had and everything he'd lost and everything he hadn't yet been able to have.

He could _have_ things now.

So now, after months of running and dodging and hiding, he was going to sit and let them find him, because through their rough youth and through the war and through all the wipes and the long, forced cryogenic comas, while he'd been broken and bled and twisted into something he'd never wanted to be, Steve had been there with him. Steve had always been there.

And James Buchanan Barnes was going to let no one stop him from being there for Steve. Never again.


End file.
